


SWG: Tragic Waste of Skin

by MilenaPandora



Series: Sleeping with Ghosts [2]
Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ, JYJ (Band), Super Junior
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oldfic, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, RPF, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilenaPandora/pseuds/MilenaPandora
Summary: What goes on in Jaejoong's life when he isn't with Yoochun? What goes on through his mind?Short one-shots from Jaejoong's point of view that take place in the Sleeping with Ghosts timeline.Spoilers forSleeping with Ghosts. It should be read before the one-shots.
Relationships: Kim Jaejoong/Park Yoochun
Series: Sleeping with Ghosts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831477
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Slipping Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like an empty shell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short scene told from Jaejoong's point of view. His thoughts in **Chapter 2: Running.**
> 
> Originally posted March 11, 2013.
> 
> Series title borrowed from _A Song to Say Goodbye_ by Placebo.

Jongwoon drives in silence. Every once in a while, he glances at your wrists. Even though he can't see the bandages around them, you still pull your long sleeves further down.  
  
"Thanks for doing this," you say after a while. The sense of euphoria you felt all month is entirely gone; now you feel like an empty shell. Hollow. Lifeless. Yet you keep your eyes open and look forward. After all, this empty shell needs to do one more thing before it can allow itself to be pulled in by the current.  
  
The car stops. You don't want to look at the house you have visited so many times before; you don't want to look at it and _know_ that it may very well be the last time you see it.  
  
Jongwoon looks at you, waiting, before letting out an impatient sigh.  
  
"You don't really want to do this, do you?" he asks for the twentieth time. You don't want to answer. "Can't he come along with us? You were going to get a place together anyway, right? Just tell him to pack up his stuff and we'll wait for him-"  
  
"No!" you stop him (your voice is little more than a whisper). "He has a future here, things he can't do if he comes with me. His parents are sending him to university."  
  
"Which he doesn't even want!" Jongwoon knows this well—you've complained about it several times. "Just ask him to come with us. The worst that can happen is he says no."  
  
_That's what I'm afraid of_ , you think. You won't be able to take it if he says no. Taking a deep breath, you step out of the car and stare at the dark, silent home. Your lover's window is dark. Is he asleep? Has he been able to sleep since you… disappeared? You look down at the bandages around your wrists.  
  
_He'll never know about these_ , you think, strengthening your resolve.  
  
That thought in mind, you go up to that window you have knocked on so many times, usually to go to the beach—the place you love the most—with Yoochun—the person you love most.  
  
_I probably look like shit_ , you realize. It doesn't matter, though. He'll be happy to see you, and maybe he'll be sad after you're gone, but he'll get over it, and though the thought of him forgetting you hurts like hell, you know it's the right thing to do. It is.  
  
It has to be.  
  
When it's finally over—after you say goodbye and he looks at you, dark eyes filled with grief and desperation; after you kiss him, one last kiss you hope you'll never forget—you hurry over to the car, too afraid you'll look back and change your mind.  
  
"Go!" you tell Jongwoon. The older teenager lets out another impatient sigh but drives away. He says nothing while you break down in tears that are sad, angry, resentful, painful, and more.  
  
_It was the right thing to do_ , you tell yourself, over and over, even though the tears won't stop flowing.


	2. Volatile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They would hate you, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short scene told from Jaejoong's point of view. It takes place around SWG **Chapter 12**.
> 
> Originally posted November 9, 2014.

The music is loud, loud enough that the bass vibrates inside your head, your chest, your entire body. It should be bothersome, but you don't mind it—this is what you need right now: a dark nightclub, drinking and dancing with friends. _Away, away from those assholes_ , you think, closing your eyes and smiling as your dance partner slides his arm around your waist.  
  
_They are far away now_. Not one of them knows where you are, what you are doing, who you are with. Not that it's any of their business. You're a free man, lacking official ties to anyone—family, friends, _lovers_ —they are, for all intents and purposes, dead to you. (Well, except for _one_ of them, but no matter how much you want to get him out of your system, he's always there, embedded in your mind, your body, your _heart_. Oh, how you wish you could rip his memory off you—the sound of his voice, the feel of his skin against yours, the taste of his lips, the way his eyes shine when they gaze at you. However, it has been impossible so far (you wonder if you could do it now)).  
  
But, whatever, _no thinking about that_ , you remind yourself, closing your eyes, _feeling_ the music, each note dancing into your ear and staying inside your head; you visualize them as colorful written notes (red, green, purple, blue…), jumping up and down between your ears, or floating in the limited and dark space you imagine the inside of your head to be—the thought makes you giggle; does that mean you don't have a brain? (Do you?)—each bright color lighting it up, until it looks like a mini version of the club you have been dancing at for hours. You sing along with the songs you know (nearly all of them, except for Techno and other mostly instrumental tunes, though you still hum along).  
  
"Hey, don't ignore me," your dance partner whispers in your ear. You don't remember his name, but you find him terribly attractive: dark skin, hair dyed red, a slim body with lean muscles that feel so good under your hands (no dark hair, nor nearly black eyes; no pale skin; no deep voice making your shiver).

Automatically, you smirk flirtatiously. He is, after all, your chosen partner for the night, one of several men who followed you throughout the evening, until they got tired of your endless energy, dancing and dancing, your skin covered in perspiration, your head a mindless mess invaded by the melodies and beats (you can see them, smoky lines and waves of blue, purple, red, green, surrounding you, dancing around the room much like the wavy colors from the visualization setting of the computer's music player), further clouded by the ridiculous amount of alcohol you have imbibed in the course of a few hours. Cute Redhead—as you've decided to call him—was the only one willing to stick by you. He's hopelessly attracted to you, the poor guy; you can see the desire in his eyes clearly.  
  
"Then, keep me entertained," you whisper back. He smiles and takes your hand, gently tugging at it, wordlessly asking you to follow; you do, fighting the throng of sweaty, horny men who frequent this gay club, perhaps the most popular in the entire city. You expect him to take you into the bathroom (by midnight, it's already a disgusting mess, but it's the only place that offers privacy in the building); however, soon you find yourself standing in front of a door—green? Blue? You can't tell under the dim and colored lights—his hand still holding yours, while the other knocks on hard wood.  
  
"Hey, you mind?" Cute Redhead asks when the door opens a sliver. A second later, he's leading you past the door and inside a corridor. You don't even think about questioning him—you honestly don't care; you're attracted to him and sexual desire has begun to take over until you can't think about anything else.  
  
The bedsprings creak when he pushes you to sit down; next thing you know, he's leaning down to kiss you, pushing you down until you're on your back. There's some gentleness in his touch, but that is not what you want—you take control of the kiss, lightly biting on his lower lip; you shift until you can reverse your positions, straddling his hips, pulling off his shirt, undoing his belt buckle, and more, more, until you feel like you have become one with him, your mind utterly abandoned to pleasure and nothing else. When he enters you, you give yourself to the feeling, closing your eyes and savoring every thrust, every touch of his surprisingly soft hands. Life is good, you think, perfect, wonderful. You had forgotten what this felt like, acting freely, fucking without a worry in the world.  
  
_"I've been going out with Changmin for a few months."  
_  
You close your eyes, trying to push away the memory. The man you thought loved you now loves someone else, you could tell right away. At that moment, you hated Changmin, the stupid, needy jerk who stole Yoochun from you. Now he had to steal Yunho, too?  
  
"Oh. I've been sleeping with Yoochun for months," you replied, anxiety creeping in, yet you acted as though you were casually discussing the weather. Before you even realized what you were doing, you grabbed the hardcover book on top of the coffee table and threw it at him. After that, you honestly don't remember what happened. You don't remember whether you yelled, if you fought, if you hit him. Your mind is trying to protect you, you think; that voice inside your head that tells you what to do, what to say, what to feel, it's blocking out anything that could cause you pain.  
  
You push it away, all of it, and focus on your partner once more. He's passionate, he knows where to touch, where to kiss. Maybe Cute Redhead should stick around for a few more days.  
  
When you both finish, he's exhausted. You rode him hard, you're absolutely aware of that and greatly enjoying yourself. You could go on and on, though, your lust controlling your body, your mind. You need it so badly, your body is on fire; you need more.  
  
"Give me a moment," Cute Redhead says, chuckling when you kiss him again. "Let me recover." He lowers his voice, making you shiver. "I promise I won't disappoint."  
  
You decide that you want to find out.  
  
  
  
How long has it been since you locked yourself in a room with Cute Redhead? Minutes? Hours? Your mind is hazy, cloudy, but you aren't tired. When you leave the room and go back to the club, you see people dancing, and all you want to do is join them. Oh, how wonderful, to be free, to feel amazing, throwing all your worries to the wind. You can sleep with whomever you want, whenever you want.

Briefly, you think about the men you've left behind. Would they be disappointed if they saw you now, dancing almost obscenely with a man you've just met, wishing you were still in the bedroom, fucking like your life depended on it? They would hate you, probably.  
  
However, you don't care; you don't feel guilty. On the contrary, both of your former lovers (former?) kept holding you back, forcing you to become the person they wanted, someone you could never be. _This_ is you: wild, crazy, sensual, sexual; carefree and happy. Tying you down until your entire being feels restrained and suffocated by the weight of expectation; being a useless zombie thanks to that ridiculous medication; trying to be like the boy _he_ loved once upon a time; no, you can't be any of that. That is not you, not now, not ever.  
  
Cute Redhead leaves you to buy more drinks. Happily, you follow. You need to have fun. The world is so pretty! The colors are so bright, surrounding you, loving you as you love them. Dance, dance, and dance some more, until the world becomes yours.


	3. Slowed Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hate it so much you could die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning!!!** Please mind the tags.
> 
> A short scene told from Jaejoong's point of view. It takes place around SWG **Chapter 20**.
> 
> Originally posted November 30, 2016.
> 
> Chapter title borrowed from the song _Slowed Down_ by Visuals.

You hate late night hours. Unlike afternoons and early evenings, they are slow and quiet. Dead. Most of all, they're lonely. You aren't alone—you could be in bed right now, next to the one person in the world who actually wants you there (or at least _he_ believes that he does). Instead, you're as far away from him as is physically possible inside his apartment. Why?  
  
_That's a perfectly good question_ , you think, placing your cigarette between your lips and taking a slow drag. Not a second after, you frown and glare at the white cylinder. The damn thing tastes like shit. Nevertheless, you don't throw it away. Just thinking about doing so reminds you of someone you'd rather not think about. You remember him talking about cigarettes and cancer and how he would hate it if his life partner died thanks to such a "filthy" habit. So, what if you could get cancer? _We all gotta die of something._  
  
Dying… The idea of it has never been foreign to you. You remember being ten years old and thinking it would be better if you didn't exist. Your family never made you feel otherwise. Only one person ever cared, ever asked… Not that you ever told him anything. Save for a few times, that you remember, you never really told him how you felt.  
  
Now, _him_ dying of cancer, or anything else, really, that would be unacceptable. He works too hard, worries too much. Every day that goes by, he looks thinner. Most of it is your fault, you know that. Taking care of you takes a toll on him, it always has.  
  
_I should just kill myself._ The thought comes unbidden. It's always there, that idea, that certainty that you shouldn't be alive. Still, you force yourself, to breathe, to get out of bed, to eat. After all, _he_ does it; he forced himself to move when he thought you were lost to him. He wasn't weak enough to collapse after your suicide attempt and subsequent hospitalization. No, he worked harder. He still does.  
  
"You should take better care of yourself," Junsu will tell him sometimes. The guy is kind of annoying, but at least he cares. He tells you that, too, a lot, usually whenever he comes over to keep you company. You wonder why he tries so hard. It's not like he likes you. In his mind (and in everyone else's) you're the reason for any and all of Yoochun's problems, depressions, and general misery. You are a horrible villain who comes in and disrupts his life. Yes, you know that's what they think.  
  
(It's what you think, too.)  
  
"Let him choose if he wants to stay with you," Yunho has said many times. He knows how you feel, how angry and miserable and helpless, especially when it comes to Yoochun. So, you're supposed to let him choose if he wants to continue this stupid, dysfunctional relationship. Yes, why not? Let the same man who, as a boy, befriended a crazy guy who followed him home, after the _third_ time it happened. No, your beloved is not a good judge of character, just look at his choice in boyfriends (you refuse to admit that either of _them_ were ever good enough for him; no, Yoochun deserves so much better).  
  
These days, you don't talk much. It's difficult to keep your thoughts organized when your mind is a jumbled mess.  
  
"It's just the meds," Yunho reminded you a couple of days ago. "You'll start feeling normal again soon."  
  
Normal. Does such a thing really exist? What does normal even feel like? You sigh, leaning against the balcony railing and taking another drag.  
  
Most days, you feel like you're just sitting there while the world goes past you in fast forward. Your motions seem to lag, like you're in a slow-motion movie scene. You hate it so much you could die. Sometimes you write on the notebook Yoochun bought you. Anything that comes to mind, you write it down. The other day, you recalled a story you had thought about writing once (back when you had been an idiotic and naïve teenager), but the words wouldn't come; you just sat there, the notebook on your lap, the pen in your hand, and nothing came.  
  
_Is my brain even there anymore?_ You wonder, stupidly. Of course, it's there, you wouldn't be alive otherwise. However, the part of your psyche that makes you _you_ , that made you interesting and fun (despite the unbearable anxiety and desperation that plagued you all the time), does that still exist? If it doesn't…  
  
_Then I want to die._ This… This isn't living. You're just… existing.  
  
How long has it been since the last time you had sex? The meds suppress all of you, not just your personality and your emotions (save for the negative ones, go figure), but your body, as well. Lately, you don't want to talk; the thought of being touched makes you want to throw up. Having sex… It makes you feel guilty. He works so hard for you, he's giving you a home and so much more, the least you could do is sleep with him. But, no, whatever is controlling who you are feels disgust at the thought of being intimate with the man you love.  
  
_It's fucking ridiculous!_ You will never forget the first time you kissed him, nor the first time he allowed you to touch him intimately. To your younger self, those moments had been nothing short of a victory. Getting him to want you, to _love_ you, you will forever consider that an accomplishment. Part of you knew you were just a convenient escape, at least at the beginning, and you were happy to give him that; not long after, you gave him your body and your heart.  
  
Now, however, what can you give him?  
  
_Nothing_. Well, he has your heart, or what you think is your heart. After all the things you have done to him, all the ways you have hurt him, can you really say you love him?  
  
"What are you doing?" You look behind you at the slightly slurred question. Yoochun is standing there in his pajamas. His dark hair is mussed, and he seems to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. He waits, but you say nothing. Though you want to (why can't you?).  
  
You put out the cigarette and lean slightly over the railing, looking down the length of the building and at the sidewalk. You could do it right now, jump, get it all over with, _die_. Your pain and suffering would end— _his_ pain and suffering would eventually end, too.  
  
"Hyung," he calls out, sleepily. You sigh, pushing away from the railing.  
  
_Maybe another day_ , you think.  
  
"Come to bed," he says. "It's cold outside." It is, a bit.  
  
You nod and walk inside. He closes the sliding door, then follows you to your shared room. You lie on your side of the bed, pulling up the covers. He gets in, as well, smiling sleepily at you.  
  
"Good night, Hyung." He closes his eyes and is asleep almost immediately.  
  
You watch him, noticing how his face relaxes in sleep. The poor idiot. He's always worrying so much, when he should just leave you alone; he should stop thinking of you as the center of his world and just let you die.  
  
(You think you really would, if he ever did.)


	4. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is stupid. Love is a myth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of short scenes from Jaejoong's point of view. Most of it takes place before and during SWG **Chapter 1**.
> 
> Originally posted February 27, 2017.

You don't believe in love. The mere idea makes you want to vomit. Whenever you head over to Jongwoon's house and he makes you watch those romantic movies he likes, you spend the entire time making snide comments and making fun of the main characters.   
  
"You're such a child," Jongwoon will accuse you. You usually roll your eyes, quietly agree, and then go back to watching whatever sugary-sweet scene is playing out.   
  
Love is stupid. Love is a myth. Love is an idea society and the media sell to humans because, otherwise, life would be boring at best and hell at worst. Love doesn't exist in your world.  
  
"You're so cynical," the last guy you hooked up with told you. It was his idea to talk about love and relationships. From the very beginning, you told him what you wanted; talk about wanting to be in love and in a regular relationship was not it. You prefer not to believe in fairytales.   
  
"Someday you will," he told you. You kissed him to make him shut up.  
  
*****  
  
"I don't even know why Mom chose to raise him," one of your sisters says one day. The three that still live at home—the unmarried ones—will sit in their shared room and talk for hours, about university or work or men, movies, anything that comes to mind. This day, you walk by their room and overhear them by chance.  
  
"Because he's Dad's spawn, that's why," another replies. "And Mom thinks it's her responsibility, for some messed up reason."  
  
The woman you call "Mother" isn't cruel, but neither is she kind. You remember, as a child, receiving about the same care your sisters did: you were fed, clothed; she even helped you with homework sometimes. However, she never praised you, never seemed happy to see you. Your father was slightly different but ignored you most of the time (you suspect that he forced himself not to show you affection because of his shame, as if he had any). Feelings of sadness and worthlessness piled up as your every achievement was ignored, as fear of punishment (most times undeserved) took over you.   
  
"He's such a nuisance," your sister says. "So much damn drama. Please, stop begging for attention and grow up," she adds derisively.  
  
"Dad should have left him with his real mother," your other sister says. (You notice the third one says nothing, but you pretend you don't.)  
  
You have known the truth for a few years now; they know you know. You also know that they wish your father had let you die all the times you have attempted suicide. They feel no sympathy, no compassion. No, there is no love in your life.  
  
*****  
  
"Here," a girl's voice breaks the comfortable silence out in a corner of the school yard. "I'm going out with someone else."  
  
There is a long pause, and then…  
  
"…What? Since when?"  
  
"Two days ago."  
  
"Why?" The poor idiot sounds so vulnerable in his surprise. Why? Because she's a bitch, that's why.  
  
"I do like you," she says (her tone implies that she's doing him a favor by liking him; what the fuck?). "But you're too intense, and I don't want that right now. It's not like you're in love with me or anything." The silence stretches.  
  
You finally become curious enough to peek from behind the wall you're leaning against. There they are, a couple. You think you've seen them around school. They're both attractive: she's a typical beauty, and so is he, actually. Her long dark hair and attractive figure match well with his wavy black hair and dark eyes set in a rather pretty face (for a guy). They're nothing special, though, not for you. They should both shut up and go die.  
  
"You're not going to cry, right?" she sounds disgusted. The boy shakes his head and puts something in his pocket.  
  
"Yeah. Goodbye." His body language and expression are nothing short of dignified. Once she walks away, however, it all dissolves. His shoulders slump, his brow furrows in pain. You think he will walk away, but he doesn't: he sits on one of the uncomfortable benches to mourn his ill-fated relationship.  
  
You're moving before you realize you are.  
  
"Girl trouble?" you ask. His dark eyes are filled with sorrow, with pain. The sight gives you goosebumps. As expected, he ignores you. For an instant, his reaction angers you. You pretend to take it in stride, however. "You'll get over it," you continue, nonchalantly sitting next to him.  
  
When he looks up and your gazes lock, you feel _something_ , a feeling other than pain or sadness, despair or rage; it isn't lust or elation, or anything at all, really. At least, nothing you can recognize.   
  
It certainly isn't love.  
  
*****  
  
The first time you hear him singing, you wonder if you aren't hallucinating (it wouldn't be the first time). The day you met him, and the next two days, you followed him home. The (tiny) part of you that remains rational throughout every one of your episodes knew that it was crazy, but, still, you did it. You wanted to be near him, for him to pay attention to you. You acted like one of those insane stalkers in the movies, but you didn't care.  
  
On the third day, he spoke to you and let you into his world. Now, you are imbedded in his life and nothing (except maybe death) will pull you away.  
  
So, you hear him singing one night. You're in the backseat of your old, beat up car, dozing. The radio is on. It's the third time you've dragged him over to the beach. He protested, just like the first and second times, but, somehow, you think he doesn't really mind. Even sleepily, he listens to you ramble, and takes the soda (after he told you that he doesn't drink alcohol—something about his mother being against it—you decided to stock up on his favorite drink) and snacks you offer him.  
  
Tonight, you're exhausted. The past few days have been stressful at home, with your family watching your every move. Your parents dislike that you have replaced the lock in your bedroom door. They think you'll kill yourself the first chance you get. Morons. Like you would kill yourself now.  
  
"So you have a new guy?" Jongwoon asked you a couple of days ago. You hadn't called him in over a week. Your interest in someone new was enough to placate him. "Share. What's he like?"  
  
 _Beautiful_ , you thought then and you think now. A slow song is playing, some love song you don't really like. Less than a minute into it, you realize someone is singing along. Your most recent friend has a beautiful deep voice; he sings with as much feeling as he lives. As he embeds each note with perfect emotion, you feel your eyes sting. He sings in a low volume, but you hear him clearly.  
  
 _Why don't you ever sing when I'm awake?_ The question bounces around in your head, but you don't dare ask it. What if he stops singing? What if he refuses to let you hear him again?  
  
 _Beautiful_ , you think again. Yoochun is nothing less than beautiful.  
  
*****  
  
Some nights you pretend to fall asleep. Most times your mind is going a million miles a minute, you can't think straight, and you can't force yourself to stop talking despite your best efforts. However, some nights, you manage to close your eyes and stay still. And, if you're lucky, you hear him sing.  
  
"You know every song on the radio," Yoochun noticed one day. He sounded annoyed; you just grinned—it is true, after all. While you like most genres, Yoochun focuses on the soft, romantic songs, the sadder or more dramatic the better.   
  
He always starts slowly, each note hesitant. His voice calms you; it makes you want to curl up around him and not let go. The first time you think that, your eyes fly open in surprise. You have never wanted to be around someone as much as you do Yoochun. It's stupid, and you try to ignore it, but you end up following him around like a dog. Ah, he's a good friend, that's all. (That you often find yourself staring at him for no reason, or wondering what he's doing when you aren't together, or making plans in your head for the next time you see him…none of that means anything.)  
  
So you close your eyes and listen, pretend the world is his and yours alone. Now, wouldn't that be perfect?  
  
*****  
  
"Someone's got it bad," Jongwoon remarks one night. It's Wednesday (you think, but you aren't sure; maybe it's Thursday) and you've forced yourself not to follow _him_ home. A few months have passed since that day you witnessed him being dumped mercilessly and he has, unsurprisingly, become the center of your world.   
  
"Who's got it bad?" you reply (a bit defensively, you realize quickly enough).  
  
Jongwoon rolls his eyes and sits next to you on the sofa.  
  
"Come on, spill," he urges. "Who's the guy keeping you from hanging out with me? You've stopped hooking up, too."  
  
"I hooked up with what's-his-name maybe a month ago," you counter.  
  
"Exactly, a _month_." You hate him when he smirks. It makes you want to punch him. Asshole. "Who is he? Do I know him?"  
  
"No." It takes you a moment to realize that he's grinning. Damn it. "He's just a friend. There's nothing special about him."  
  
"What's he like?" Jongwoon asks again, his tone soft rather than demanding. Should you tell him? But then Yoochun won't be yours alone. That is absolutely unacceptable. Still…  
  
"…His name is…"  
  
Your friend (now relegated to second best friend thanks to Yoochun's existence) listens to you practically gush about your new best friend. You tell him about your nightly trips to the beach, about Yoochun's weird passion for dramas, and how he complains whenever you go get him at two or three in the morning, yet never really says no. Jongwoon nods here and there, occasionally asks a question, always giving you the attention you so badly need. When you're finally done, he gives you a somewhat sad smile.  
  
"Like I said," he speaks. "Someone's got it bad."  
  
*****  
  
You hate Jongwoon for days and refuse to accept his words as fact. Yoochun is your friend, of course you like him. If every morning you wake up thinking about him, and you go to sleep imagining your next meeting, it doesn't mean you have special feelings for him, does it?  
  
Does it?  
  
"Morning, Hyung," Yoochun greets you after the weekend's over.  
  
Suddenly, you're breathless; it feels like being punched in the chest, this awful pain, this longing that takes over you the moment you glance at him. Oh, how you wish you could stay like this, the two of you alone, no one around; if only you could take his hand and lead him away, where pain and hatred and resentment don't exist. Oh, if only you could.  
  
"Hyung?" His dark (and still sleepy) gaze fills with worry. _He's worried about me_ , you think stupidly. Why does it make you so happy? Why does _he_ make you feel elated when he smiles, yet miserable when he's gone? Why does hearing his voice make your heart skip? Why does listening to him talk or sing make you feel less lonely? Why do you have to feel like this? Why, why, why?  
  
You don't believe in love. It is stupid, a myth. Love doesn't exist in your life.  
  
"We're going to be late," he says after an annoyed sigh. You follow him with your gaze as he walks past you, your heart beating a mile a minute. It hurts so much, but you can't stop it.  
  
 _Do I even want to?_  
  
Love doesn't exist, you remind yourself. That it's walking away from you right now, then turns around and calls out to you ("Hyung! Do you want to be late?"), it means nothing.  
  
"Fuck," you mutter, your eyes filling with tears. "Stop nagging so early in the morning," you complain, hurrying to match his pace.  
  
*****  
  
It's his birthday and you want to be the first to congratulate him. You hold on to that thought as you drive over and wake him up. You're in the middle of one of your weird episodes, you're aware, yet you make no effort to stop yourself from saying or doing stupid stuff, such as driving like a madman or stripping down and jumping in the freezing water less than five minutes after you've parked. He follows (he always does), taking off his every piece of clothing despite the cold winds (you stare, transfixed by how his skin seems to glow under the night sky) and wading over to you.  
  
A moment later, you're warm, a chest pressed to yours, lips soft against yours.   
  
…  
  
Oh.   
  
You're kissing him. He's in your arms, practically frozen against you.   
  
Fuck.   
  
He's going to punch you out for it.   
  
But you don't want to let go.   
  
But he'll be angry.   
  
What can you do now? What do you say?  
  
…  
  
…Fuck it.  
  
"Happy birthday," you say happily. And you kiss him again.


End file.
